


Love Me And Despair

by Kaylin881



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Padmé Amidala, Sith Padmé Amidala, don't worry that's a platonic relationship tag not a romantic one, will eventually be Anakin/Padmé
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-05-20 17:19:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaylin881/pseuds/Kaylin881
Summary: In place of a Dark Lord you would have a Queen...Padmé is the Sith Apprentice. This changes surprisingly little, at first, and then a lot.





	1. the royal 'we'

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank the Star Wars Discord for egging me on, and Jynx in particular for the title.
> 
> Approximately all the dialogue in this chapter is taken from canon. This will change in future chapters.

“To state our allegations, I present Queen Amidala, recently elected ruler of the Naboo, who speaks on our behalf.” Senator Palpatine steps back from the microphone and motions for Padmé, resplendent in her full regalia, to take his position at the front of their box.

“Honourable representatives of the Republic,” she begins, just as they rehearsed earlier. After nearly a year in office, the official voice of the Queen comes naturally to her. “I come to you under the gravest of circumstances. The Naboo system has been invaded by the droid armies of the Trade—”

“I object!” There is the interruption they were expecting, right on cue. The Trade Federation delegate’s performative outrage might be amusing if the situation were any less critical. Another senator seconds his call for an investigation; more take up the cry. Chancellor Valorum can barely make himself heard. 

Senator Palpatine leans over and bends down to put his mouth close to Padmé’s ear. Somehow, he manages this feat without falling foul of her elaborate hairstyle.

“Enter the bureaucrat,” he murmurs, drawing her attention to where Valorum’s aide is whispering in his ear. “The true rulers of the Republic, and on the payroll of the Trade Federation, I might add. This is where Chancellor Valorum's strength will disappear.”

She nods with a small, careful movement that does not even rattle her headpiece. Message received.

“The point is conceded,” Valorum is blathering when she returns her attention to the Chancellor’s podium. The weak-willed fool has lost what control of the situation he ever had. “Will you defer your motion to allow a commission to explore the validity of your accusations?”

Now is her moment. Padmé opens her mouth and lets Queen Amidala shoot him down.

“I will not defer,” she says flatly. “I've come before you to resolve this attack on our sovereignty  _now_.” They weren’t sure exactly how this scene would play out, but she knows her part from here on, knows the words she has to say to get the outcome they need. “I was not elected to watch my people suffer and die while you discuss this invasion in a committee! If this body is not capable of action, I suggest new leadership is needed. I move for a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum's leadership!”

Her speech meets with approval from the Senate: first one, then many delegates second her motion, calling for an immediate vote to oust Valorum from office. The Chancellor himself looks dumbfounded, unable to raise his voice above the din. Calls for order go ignored.

“Now,” Palpatine whispers for Padmé’s ears only, “they will elect a new Chancellor, a strong Chancellor, one who will not let our tragedy continue.” In his voice, she hears an echo of her own satisfaction. They are one step closer to their goals.

As her presence is not required for the next stage of proceedings in the Senate, Padmé returns with her bodyguard and handmaidens to Palpatine’s residence. The senatorial apartments, in which Palpatine lives alone with only a couple of droids as a concession to practicality, were designed for a previous Senator of Naboo who preferred a much larger retinue. As such, there is more than enough space for the Queen, her handmaidens, her guards, and a couple of additional guests. There is also, Padmé discovers, a magnificent view of Coruscant’s skyline. From the windows of the upper floor, she can look out upon both the spires of the Jedi Temple in the distance and the vast Senate dome which appears to lie almost beneath her feet.

She wonders how often Palpatine stands in this very spot, pretending himself master of all he surveys.  From this vantage, she can almost picture it—the Senate, more productive than it has been in decades, dancing to Palpatine’s tune, and the Jedi bowing to his authority instead of constantly trying to impose theirs on a galaxy that left them behind centuries ago. Qui-Gon Jinn’s heavy-handed condescension back on Tatooine still stings in her memory, fuelling a brief but satisfying fantasy of Master Jinn kneeling at their feet, apologising for doubting her judgement and promising to obey her—no, Palpatine’s—will.

 “Your Highness?” Captain Panaka’s voice jolts Padmé out of her contemplation of the Coruscant sunset. He is standing just inside the door of the room, Senator Palpatine at his side. Padmé had been speaking to Jar Jar about the plight of their respective peoples before she became lost in the view, she remembers, and indeed the Gungan is still standing by her side, having been likewise staring out at the city below.

Putting aside her concerns about Jar Jar for the moment, she turns to Panaka, who continues, “Senator Palpatine has been nominated to succeed Valorum as Supreme Chancellor.”

“A surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one,” Palpatine says for the benefit of their audience. He’s smiling, half genial uncle and half honoured-but-humble servant of the people. Padmé hears the real message underneath: _You have done well. All is going to plan_. “Your Majesty, if I am elected,” he adds, “I promise to bring democracy back to the Republic. I will put an end to corruption. The Trade Federation will lose its influence over the bureaucrats, and our people will be freed.”

_If_ he is elected. “Who else has been nominated?”

It’s Panaka who answers her. “Bail Antilles of Alderaan and Ainlee Teem of Malastare.” Senator Antilles, she remembers, was one of those who spoke out in favour of the vote of no confidence. Teem, on the other hand, is a crony of the Trade Federation. Naboo would not prosper were _he_ to win the popular vote.

“I feel confident that our situation will create a strong sympathy vote for us,” Palpatine says, as if in response to her unvoiced fears. “I _will_ be Chancellor.”

Our situation. Our people. And yet they both know very well that he has not set foot on Naboo since well before this ‘situation’ began. Perhaps if her most trusted advisor had been present in person, and not just over the shaky connection of a hologram, the _situation_ would not have escalated as it did. Padmé might not have been forced to flee Naboo, might never have come to Tatooine or met little Anakin Skywalker.

Now that she thinks about it, it might be a good thing he wasn’t there.

“I fear by the time you have control of the bureaucrats, Senator, there will be nothing left of our people, our way of life.” It is only when she echoes Palpatine’s use of the plural that Padmé notices its undertones of the royal ‘we’, a form she technically has a right to use as Amidala but never does. Palpatine, as Senator or even as a future Supreme Chancellor, does not have the same right.

“I understand your concern, Your Majesty,” he is saying now. “Unfortunately, the Federation has possession of our planet.”

Both of them are being careful not to directly contradict each other: she has not challenged his certainty that he will be elected, and he has not offered a correction to her fear that Naboo will be destroyed before political manoeuvring can save it. In this context, that almost counts as agreement, which only leaves her more certain of her next words.

“Senator,” she says, lowering her head in what might be taken as either sorrow or concession, “this is your arena. I feel I must return to mine.” She does not look at Palpatine as she finishes, “I have decided to go back to Naboo.”

“Go back!” Palpatine exclaims. The kindly uncle is back in full force, this time projecting dismayed concern, but Padmé learned a long time ago to listen to the exact words in such situations, not the tone. Of course, he cannot be seen to advise his young Queen to return to a war zone, not in front of the captain of her guard. “But, Your Majesty, be realistic! They will force you to sign the treaty.” _Be on your guard_ , he means.

“I will sign no treaty, Senator.” Padmé lets the edge of her annoyance with the rusted wheels of Senate bureaucracy slip into her voice, to strengthen the impression of disagreement between them. “My fate will be no different than that of our people,” she adds for the benefit of the Naboo listening to their conversation. A little propaganda never hurt anyone. “Captain!”

“Your Highness?” Panaka is already moving towards the door, following Padmé’s lead.

“Ready my ship.” She strides past Palpatine, forcing him to turn to avoid showing her his back as she heads for the exit.

In the least convincing tone he’s used in their conversation so far, Palpatine makes one last show of resistance. “Please, Your Majesty, stay here where it’s safe.”

Padmé turns in the doorway to face him, flanked by Eirtaé and Rabé. “It is clear to me now,” she says slowly, “that the Republic no longer functions. I pray you will bring sanity and compassion back to the Senate.” She knows he will understand her meaning: _Good luck. I am sure you will be the new Chancellor by the time we next meet_.

She leaves before he can say anything else. They each understand the other’s position; there is nothing left to say.


	2. Talk of angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting half-finished in my drafts folder for a while. I finally managed to get it to a decent stopping point.

_Mos Espa, Tatooine: a few days earlier_

Padmé suppresses a giggle as Jar Jar sticks out his long tongue at Qui-Gon Jinn’s retreating back. The Jedi has an unfortunate tendency to treat those around him like children, and she hopes she’ll be there to see when it backfires on him.

Jar Jar goes back to inspecting the merchandise on display, obeying—for now—Jinn’s patronising instruction not to touch. Padmé does the same, looking around at the wares crowding the walls and floor. They’re in a junk shop just like any of the others they passed on the way, and she has no idea why Jinn chose this one in particular. There’s nothing that would get a second glance on Coruscant or even Naboo, but here people must be desperate enough to buy second- or third-hand mechanicals none of which look like they’ve seen the inside of a professional repair shop in a decade.  The Toydarian proprietor seems to think he has the part they need, though, so she’s not arguing with the results. After all, they are desperate.

“Are you an angel?” The boy sat on the counter is staring at her in fascination.

It’s so unexpected she almost laughs. “What?” Padmé knew he was there, had registered his arrival and then dismissed him when it was clear he wasn’t a threat, but she wasn’t expecting him to talk to her. On Naboo, not many people make small talk with the Queen’s handmaidens and even fewer with the Queen herself. In her current disguise, she is neither, a fact she had forgotten in her fascination with the unfamiliar surroundings. 

“An angel. I heard the deep space pilots talk about them,” the boy tells her as if confiding a secret. “They’re the most beautiful creatures in the universe. They live on the moons of Iego, I think.”

Now she’s paying attention, there’s something about his Force signature that piques Padmé’s interest.  “You’re a funny little boy,” she says for the sake of saying something. It’s the sort of vacuous observation the innocent girl she’s pretending to be might make. She moves closer, tilting her head as if that will change her view of him in the Force. It feels for a millisecond like she’s walking up to a supernova, or stepping into the path of an ion cannon. “How do you know so much?”

“I listen to all the traders and star pilots who come through here.” The boy picks up a piece of rusty metal, too battered for her to tell what it’s meant to be, and starts polishing it with a rag as he explains. “I’m a pilot, you know,” he brags, “and someday, I’m gonna fly away from this place.”

“You’re a pilot?” Padmé repeats stupidly, hoping he’ll misread her staring as interest in what he’s saying rather than a fascination with how brightly he burns in the Force. She _is_ interested—he’s ambitious, that’s useful to know, and besides, he’s adorable—but it’s hard to think too much about anything else when she’s staring at the strongest Force user she’s seen in her entire life, and he’s a ten-year-old boy who works in a junk shop. He says something else, probably answering her question, but she doesn’t pay all that much attention.

“How long have you been here?” she thinks to ask, leaving ‘here’ deliberately vague so it could mean the shop, the sorry excuse for a city, or the planet.

Threads of possibility spiral out in front of her, all her plans shifting to account for this new factor. She ought to inform her Master: Sidious will undoubtedly want to know about such a prize, but something in her flinches away from the thought. She wants to put it off. She’d rather keep this little boy, with his smiles and his talk of angels, to herself, just for a little while.

“...sold to Gardulla the Hutt,” the kid is saying. “But she lost us betting on the podraces.”

Wait, what? Padmé frowns and runs back over his last few sentences in her head. “You’re a slave?”

Something about that lights a spark of emotion in the boy. “I’m a _person_ ,” he insists, tiny face screwed up in a frown, “and my name is Anakin.”

Anakin, she repeats in her head, a trick her mother taught her when she was ten to learn people’s names at social functions. “I’m sorry,” she says aloud, surprised to find she means it. She wasn’t intending to make him angry. “I don’t fully understand; this is a strange place to me.”

An unholy shriek redirects Padmé’s attention away from the conversation. She relaxes immediately when she sees that it’s just Jar Jar, who has gotten bored of not touching things and activated one of the droids on display. The little thing pops up and starts scurrying around the shop floor, Jar Jar chasing it. This time, Padmé doesn’t bother hiding her giggle as she watches.

“Hey,” Anakin calls from beside her. “Hit the nose!”

Jar Jar makes a pleased sound and bops the nose-like protrusion at the front of the droid’s head. Padmé isn’t even surprised when it folds up and falls to the floor, deactivated. She’s rapidly learning that Anakin is more than just a cute face and a strong Force signature.

That impression is only strengthened over the next few days. Padmé had been intending to find an excuse to see Anakin again after they left Watto’s, but that turns out to be unnecessary. First, he saves Jar Jar from the wrath of an offended Dug. Then, Anakin invites their rag-tag party into his home without hesitation when a storm threatens. Over dinner, when Jinn explains their problems, the boy talks his mother into letting him help by using Shmi’s own words against her, an argument that reveals his potential as a negotiator. Padmé feels irrationally proud.

Despite his lack of training in the Force—Padmé supposes he could be hiding it, as she does, but she doubts it—Anakin’s reflexes and intuitions are already far beyond what any regular human could achieve. Nevertheless, her heart is in her mouth as he prepares to race his cobbled-together pod in a sport in which no other human is capable of taking part. Jinn is speaking quietly to the boy out of her earshot, no doubt imparting some last-minute Jedi wisdom that will help him not at all.

Shmi, waiting next to Padmé in the stands, fidgets with a loose thread on the sleeve of her tunic.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Padmé tries to reassure her.

With the race about to begin, everyone not competing themself is forced to clear the track. As the racers fire up their engines and make their final preparations, Jinn comes to join the rest of them on a viewing platform.

“Is he nervous?” Shmi asks as soon as the Jedi Master is close enough.

“He’s fine,” Jinn answers, seeming distracted. Padmé wonders if it galls him to know that their fate is now out of his hands, resting on the shoulders of an untested Force sensitive. It certainly doesn’t sit well with her. If Anakin wins, they can leave for Coruscant tomorrow. If he loses, they could be here for weeks or months until they can find another way off this lawless backwater.

“You Jedi are far too reckless.” She turns to glare at Jinn when he goes to stand behind her. “The Queen—”

He interrupts her. “The Queen trusts my judgement, young handmaiden. You should too.”

As though his judgement has anything to do with what’s about to unfold. If his blind faith in an untrained child is misplaced, Jinn’s arrogant certainty could have trapped them here, throwing dozens of plans into jeopardy.

Unfortunately, Padmé can’t do anything to change the outcome either. The following minutes are the longest she has ever experienced. Leaning over Shmi’s shoulder, she watches the race unfold on the viewscreen like it’s a speeder wreck. That probably wasn’t the best metaphor given the circumstances, Padmé realises a moment later, as one of Anakin’s fellow racers wipes out with a spectacular explosion. Shmi gasps and flinches.

Against all the odds, Ani wins. The pod splutters and dies on the sand, but he made it across the line. The crowd loves it, almost deafening Padmé with their hoots and cheers. They didn’t think much of him earlier, she grumbles internally. There wasn’t anything like this level of excitement when Ani’s name was announced at the start of the race.

A memory sparks in Padmé’s mind. _‘Popularity is fickle, my dear,’_ her Master told her once. _‘Power endures.’_ Anakin Skywalker, at this moment, has both: the momentary glory of winning the race, and the hidden power that strengthened his young limbs, quickened his reflexes, to make it possible in the first place.

Despite her cynicism, Padmé can’t help but be caught up in the excitement as their party descends upon Anakin’s pod to congratulate him. Even Jinn abandons the infuriating composure of a Jedi Master in favour of hoisting Ani on his shoulders to parade him around triumphantly. The man seems as pleased as if the victory were his own. Force, he’s going to be even more insufferable now that his ridiculous plan actually worked.


End file.
